


When Night Falls, Mother Beckons

by RandomW07



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Honestly a little bit out there, Suicidal Thoughts, and not very hopeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomW07/pseuds/RandomW07
Summary: Night falls, and brings with it thoughts Norway is tired of hearing. So he wanders aimlessly under a moonlit sky, to mourn for a freedom that will never be.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	When Night Falls, Mother Beckons

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is a little bit out there, I will admit. But I'm happy with it, though that might just be because I wrote it in pretty much one stretch XD
> 
> Warnings for suicidal thoughts. And this is pretty depressing, all things considered. So take care of yourselves!

When night falls, it cloaks Norway in solitude. Normally, he'd appreciate the peace it provides. No children squeal as they play by the lake, splashing water at each other, only to be scolded by their parents for leaving their sibling or friend soaked. His phone doesn't vibrate constantly, missed calls and unanswered emails accumulating into a mountain of responsibility he prefers to forget. His head no longer pounds from the crescendo of voices that all speak at once and cause his ears to ring. His eyes can relax, the bright light no longer stabbing them. Night offers him respite for a short while, a few hours for him to forget his status as nation and live as a human. 

  
Some nights, however, he yearns for dawn. Solitude leaves him to ponder on memories long pushed to the back of his mind, to focus on thoughts company helps him forget. Wounds that have never healed tear open with no one to keep him from picking at them. Guilt prickles at his skin, while jealousy whispers into his ear. Bitter feelings towards Denmark, who was there for Iceland when Norway abandoned him. Denmark, the proud lion his small sibling has chosen as a father figure, the dependable older brother Norway would never be. How he hates him for stealing the one person in his life he cared about above all other. No, that's not true. It isn't Denmark he resents, it's himself, the distant coward who left his humanity behind to embrace the apathy of nationhood.

  
His boots sink into the deep snow as he wanders further and further from his cabin. The harsh arctic wind bites into his cheeks, coats his hair with a dusting of frost, but he can barely feel it. It won't harm him. Not when night has turned Norway into this bitter creature. Even if he begged the elements to bury him in snow, they wouldn't. They couldn't.   
He wishes he could lose himself among the conifers. Stray so far away from society his people would forget him and he could live life anew. But the trees, too, guide him, subtly whisper at him to retrace his steps and warm himself up by the fire. He ignores them. 

  
_Let me lose myself in misery for once, I beg you. Let me lose my way in the blizzard and fall into a deep slumber for hour, days, weeks, months. Please. I'm so tired of existing._

  
To whom does he speak? The woods or the wind? The earth beneath his feet or the sky that releases flurry after flurry of snowflakes? Is he begging Mother herself, that immortal being who bends his will to suit her bidding whenever it pleases her?

  
Mother. A scornful laugh erupts from his throat. What a pathetic word to address her as. She is no mother, no kind and nurturing figure to kiss the top of his head in the event of a nightmare, no wise and caring woman who shares her knowledge of the world with him. He isn't her child, just another one of her failed creations. She doesn't love him. If he were to vanish from existence, she would simply replace him, find someone else who could tend to her needs. Mother yearns for life in the same way Norway longs for death. 

  
His feet carry him to a tree stump, its roots sprawling far and wide. Norway stares at it while snow gathers around him, turning his hair white. He counts its rings until his vision blurs with tears, the memories of his oldest friend too painful to bear. 

  
Foolishness, to think their friendship could outlast time itself. He rests his hand against the rugged bark, desperately hoping for a sign of life, a spark of feeling, new growth maybe, but it remains silent. So he mourns under the moonlit sky yet again. 

  
How many reasons has he had for mourning throughout his lifetime? Friendships severed by politics, bonds ruptured by death, freedom torn away time and time away. He has mourned for the present that passes him by, the past he cannot erase, and the future that will never be. He grieves for the victims of humanity's hatred and nature's cruelty. He grieves silently, until he no longer has any tears left to shed.

  
Wolves howl in the distance, calling out to him in solidarity. So few of them, yet they cling to him and the hope he represents. The branches of the conifers creak as the wind whistles a sorrowful tune. Other creatures of the night respond to his grief, even humans tucked in their beds feel an inexplicable urge to sing the anthem they chose to honour him. The snow falls even faster, dancing before his eyes. 

  
_You are cold, little nation. Go home. You are disrupting the harmony of those you watch over._

  
Mother's words fill him with dread. Desperately, he clings to his self-control, resists her harsh tugs at the strings she uses to coax him back to his cabin. He won't go. Not this time. He refuses to obey her whims. 

  
_Enough of that. You are not human, you have no need to grieve as they do._

  
A dam springs forth at the back of his mind. It backs his emotions into a corner to fester and rot. Further and further back it pushes them, the pressure in his brain rising and rising until his fears his skull might burst. 

  
He has no choice. As always, Mother manipulates his body and mind as if he were a mere puppet. When his thoughts become his own yet again, he finds himself standing in the middle of his living room, a migraine searing his vision with flashes of red. Pure loathing fills his being, utter hatred directed towards the omnipotent deity who towers above him. The clouds outside turned a dark violet in colour as the wind grows into a violent roar. 

  
A vessel with no free will. That is all he is. That is all nations are. Pathetic beings, helpless to resist their creator's desires. How he despises Mother! How he longs to be rid of her! Yet, at the same time, without Mother, there wouldn't be anything to watch over, no one to love. Although he hates her, he also worships her. And that dependence disgusts him more than anything she's ever done to him. 

  
He sinks to the floor and screams, raw pain and anger echoing off the cabin walls, from the pressure of his sealed emotions, the weight of her control over him, the endless suffering immortality has caused that he longs to escape. 

  
_Enough. Please. Leave me for just one night. Go to your other children. Torture them instead._

  
She already does. Omnipotent and omnipresent, she is both everywhere and nowhere, watches over every last one of her creations. She pushes them and pushes them until they break, shattering into a broken creature that may once have almost appeared human. Only then does she stop, hesitant, uncertain, to glue the fragments back together again, like a child repairing a toy broken in a fit of rage. 

  
How many times until she tires of him, Norway can't help but wonder. When will she decide he's not worth shaping to fit her desires and replace him with another? To his knowledge, she's only done so a few times before. Rome, free-spirited, is the first that comes to mind. When he tested her limits one time too many, she banished him to oblivion, erased his very existence. Rome was her first failure, for his name carried on in spite of her best efforts. Even today, the long deceased nation lives on, not an echo of waves crashing against the shore but the roar of society as they continued to speak about him, to glorify him just as they had when he still walked the earth. 

  
Could others rebel as Rome had? Surely if every last one of them rose up against her, fought for themselves, for peace, she would be unable to replace all of them. But Norway knows as soon as the thought flickers across his mind it's a naive dream. Impossible. All he can do is listen to his people, his land. Obey his government blindly, unable to make a decision of his own, a pawn in the great game Mother plays against herself. 

  
Norway watches the flames devour the blackened wood, despair yet again weighing him down until finally he gives in. What point is there in musing about such things? Change will never be, no matter how desperately they need it. Besides, he's only the Kingdom of Norway. What chance does he have against Mother Earth herself?


End file.
